Kitchen Nightmares

Hubby considers himself quite the chef, and to be fair he does do the majority of the meal planning, preparation and cooking in the household.  While he is obsessed by the Lifestyle Food channel and can watch the likes of Jamie Oliver and Rick Stein for hours, the one small aspect of cheffing life that has not been picked up by his culinary radar is the cleaning of the kitchen.  For some inexplicable reason he does not get that good chefs, real chefs, understand that a clean kitchen is a fundamental aspect of the whole cooking thing.

And while I greatly appreciate the home-cooked meals I and our children are served most evenings, the fact that he seems incapable of actually cleaning up after himself drives me insane.  He seems to enjoy using every possible pot, saucer and spoon he can find.  Oil splatterings on the backsplash are a specific area of expertise, as are vegetable peels left in a heap on the counter.  Perhaps he is waiting for them to grow legs and walk themselves over to the rubbish bin.  However, keep in mind that even if this miracle were to occur it would only be of limited assistance as the rubbish itself would have to work out a way to take itself out.  No matter how full the bin is, as far as Hubby is concerned, "There's still room". 

Hubby's cleaning regime consists of shoving whatever can fit into the dishwasher, and whatever can't fit in, he deems to be in need of 'soaking' - code for leaving it filled with water until I get so sick of seeing it there I wash it myself.  Hubby has yet to develop the understanding that if you leave a dirty cooking implement lying on the kitchen counter you will at some stage need to actually clean said counter.  Cleaning the oven, stove top, microwave, toaster, is, in Hubby's world, an optional extra.  Yet, he laughs furiously while witnessing Gordon Ramsey going through shockingly dirty commercial kitchens, totally unaware of the irony.
 
I am completely aware that in my last post I contended that I am in no way a domestic diva.  And I'm not.  At 2:01pm on a Saturday afternoon none of the beds in my home are made and 'The Saturday Age' is strewn across the dining room table.  My mother is appalled by my lack of interest in cooking an array of traditional Jewish dishes and bemoans the fact that her most valuable treasure - her secret chicken-soup recipe will die with her (mostly because she prefers that to the idea of passing this family secret on to her Irish-Catholic son-in-law).  My mother-in-law is just appalled.  But that's a whole other story.  I stand by the fact that I do not enjoy cleaning out the family fridge or scrubbing the insides of a grease-coated oven.  I can think of many activities I would prefer to participate in .  But I do these things.  Not because I gain any pleasure out of them, but because they have to be done.  Hubby just does not see the necessity.  In fact, until I raised the issue he was not even aware that toasters have a crumb-tray.

Foxtel programmers and executives, allow me to suggest a new program for the Lifestyle Food channel.  I like to call it, 'Clean the Fuck Up After Yourself'.  I want to switch on and see Jamie teaching male viewers how to clean the roasting tray after roasting a "pukka" chicken.  I want him to explain how leaving the tray filled with greasy water for 17 days to 'soak' is NOT a precursor to cleaning and will have an adverse effect on your sex-life.  I want Rick Stein to explain that when one barbecues a whole bunch of shrimp for a Christmas lunch, it's really important to remember to take out the rubbish.  And if you fail to remember to do so, it is totally reasonable for your wife to be very upset with you.  I want Gordon Ramsey to start doing home visits, telling men who have been taken in by the 'Masterchef' phenomenon that their kitchens are disgusting, liberally using the 'F-Word' as he does so.

Now that is a cooking program I would watch.

Unbounded Domesticity

Recently I have become friendly with two fellow kinder mums.  Both are lovely, honest and genuine women.  There is absolutely no bullshit about either of them, and believe me, that is not easy to find at a Jewish day school kindergarten.  However, while I value my friendship with both of them, what has become abundantly clear is that compared to both of them I am completely and utterly inadequate in the home-making department.

Domestic Goddess is exactly that.  Her two daughters' snacks are always home made and it is absolutely nothing for her to whip up a dozen perfectly pink-iced mini donuts for a play date.  She cleans out her pantry and fridge once a week and I have never seen any dirt in her house - unless one of my children has dragged it in.  Entertaining guests with an array of dietary restrictions and allergies seems to not phase her one tiny bit as she creates artful gluten-free wraps bursting with yummy fillings.  This contrasts greatly with my handing over of a slightly bruised apple with an apologetic smile.  I could handle all this if Domestic Goddess did not actually work as well.  But she does.  Granted, not full-time in the traditional sense, but she is a manager at a large company who handles corporate phone-calls on her mobile with ease while breakfasting with Sunshine Cleaning and myself without dropping a speck of her bagel and skinny hot chocolate on her perfectly pressed suit.  Thanks to her flexible job she is able to work into the night, after she has tidied up the entire house, made tomorrow's lunches and put her daughters to bed.  Her husband has a busy job of his own and as such all domestic tasks fall firmly to her, and she does them.  Not only that, she seems to enjoy them. 

Sunshine Cleaning's house is startlingly clean.  Seriously.  It's so clean it's blinding.  And she has kids.  Two boys.  Twins.  She also works.  She also maintains a vibrant social life, always going out with friends to dinner, having throngs of guests over, kids over to play with her kids - all with this amazing smile on her face.  When I first met her I assumed she must be medicated, but once again I have discovered, that she enjoys doing all these things.  She enjoys getting down on the floor and playing pretend with a hoard of four year-olds, she enjoys cutting up fruit and presenting it in a way Donna Hay would be jealous of, she enjoys being a mother and wife and everything that goes with it.  Apparently she also really enjoys vacuuming.

Both of these women have pantries that look like some sort of Tupperware Mecca. 

Tupperware Mecca

My pantry on the other hand looks like the 'before' shot - half open pasta packets, flour bags closed with random clothes pegs, and of course an assortment of highly processed snacks for hubby to throw into lunchboxes in the morning, because if he were to rely on me to do it, our children would end up going to school with half a bottle of flat diet coke.  There is also always onion and garlic skins around.  I don't know why and I don't know how.  I have learnt to keep my pantry door firmly shut when Domestic Goddess and Sunshine Cleaning visit.

I would love to be like these two women, who live in homes where the beds being made is a rule, rather than the exception.  And there are some days when I come close to being somewhat like them, when I manage to throw out that piece of mouldy cheddar that's been lurking at the back of the fridge.  But I'm pretty sure I'm not smiling about it.  And I'm very sure I'm not enjoying it.

Perhaps this is less about my inadequacies, my inabilities and more about what I choose to expend my energy on.  I suppose I could stay up till midnight vacuuming and cleaning out all those bits of onion and garlic skin, but the reality is, I would far rather be watching a DVD with hubby in my less than meticulous bedroom.  Sure, it feels great when I know the house is sparkling clean, but with three kids and two parents working full time and just trying to make things work, that particular pleasure is a rarity.  So, I'll take advantage of the joys that happen more often - my three-year old daughter sneaking into bed with me at 6am for an early morning cuddle, my ten-year old son kicking my arse at 'Just Dance 2' and my seven-year old telling me I'm the best mum in the world because for a special treat I let him have a chocolate-chip cookie and that half a bottle of flat diet coke for breakfast.